


a triptych with one sheet to the wind

by Toast_Senpai



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Bottom John, Double Penetration, Drunk Sex, M/M, Multi, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 10:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toast_Senpai/pseuds/Toast_Senpai
Summary: John gets what he wants, and a little something more.





	a triptych with one sheet to the wind

**Author's Note:**

> have some sunday porn

Another robbery, another success, and another celebration. John downed the shine offered to him and swiftly asked for more. He _wanted_ to get drunk, and it was for a combination of reasons. Accepting his refill, he sat himself down by the fire next to Charles. John drank from it slower this time, hating the burn on his throat but loving the heady rush that hit his head. Javier was singing, and a few people were trying to join in, voices rising and falling before turning into laughter.

John stared across the fire at Arthur. The man was smiling, waving around one hand as he talked to Lenny, the other holding a chipped cup. Arthur, the main case, why John wanted to see if he drank enough tonight to forget a little. John was torn between feeling elated, ecstatic even that the gang had acquired such a nice sum of cash. But he was also agitated, irate at himself for the kinds of things he let his mind run wild with.

His cup was emptied as John threw the liquid back. Uncle patted him hard on the shoulder, telling him to take it easy. But John wasn’t going to do that, had no intention of stopping now. He tore his eyes away from Arthur and went looking for more alcohol. He found whiskey outside of someone’s tent and poured it into his cup until it almost overflowed.

Arthur, his teacher once, his friend, his brother. A man strong like a bear and more handsome than most men John had ever seen. John clutched the handle of his cup and briefly wondered if it would snap with enough force. Arthur, a decent shot, good with a knife, but still couldn’t properly roast a can of beans.

There were hands on his head, sliding through his hair. He glanced up and saw Abigail looking at him. She said she was heading to bed, didn’t want Jack staying up too late. John nodded, let her slip away. He eyed Arthur over the top of his cup as he drank.

Arthur, someone who the camp didn’t deserve. A man who could have had a lot of things but his loyalty was stronger, put in place first. John spent most of his life trying to be just like Arthur, though he knew now that he could never be.

Instead… John drank, finishing the whiskey, wanting more. He sighed and lifted his eyes to the black, cloudless sky. He traced patterns in the stars and a flood of heat curled through his stomach, crept into his veins. Alcohol was a terribly wonderful thing.

Arthur’s laugh snapped his attention. The pleased sound of it, voice comforting and warm, a welcoming cabin incarnate. John wanted to crawl inside that voice and sleep, listen to it lull him like it used to when he was still a kid and the storm wasn’t letting up.

Instead, John _wanted_. He didn’t even know why. He knew Arthur couldn’t be his. Arthur belonged to no one, except maybe Dutch, somewhat. John wasn’t sure. What he did know was that Arthur was his own man and John had little idea what hidden desires Arthur had, but they surely didn’t involve _him_.

John was tired, then, mood the complete opposite of everyone else. He didn’t know how long he sat by the fire, eyed fixed to the hot flames, hearing a mash of chatter that he didn’t bother paying any real attention to.

When he finally managed to look up some time later, it was quiet save for the crackling before him. He sought out anyone, ears straining. He spotted Uncle under a nearby tree, snoring. Lamps were out, and it was a clear signal that everyone had gone to bed.

John pushed himself to his feet and almost fell over. He swayed and caught himself, then stumbled, vision tipping. He stopped and breathed, then continued to walk. His mind bubbled with a vague vision of his own tent, how to get there, just thirty-something paces to the right, then hook left past Dutch’s tent, and he’d be there easy.

When John entered the darkened space and threw himself down onto the cot, he came to the gradual realization that this _wasn’t_ his tent, and the person below him was definitely not Abigail.

John felt the grumble as he heard it, had his arm grabbed.

“John?” It was Arthur’s voice, thick with sleep.

A rush of breath left him. John pushed himself up so that he could see Arthur’s face. Well, what he could make out under a bit of moonlight. “Sorry,” John managed. “Wrong tent.” He wanted, _craved_ to lie back down, didn’t care that Arthur’s cot was suited for only one man. Use him like a big pillow, sleep until morning when he’d knew he’d wake up with a bad throbbing in his head and bitter taste on his tongue.

“You sure are drunk,” Arthur hummed, teasing.

The words mixed up John’s insides. He pouted, trying to blink his vision still. “’M not,” he said. “Just…” John gave up on finishing.

Arthur’s hand, one of those big, calloused hands softly touched the back of his head and ever-so-lightly pushed. “It’s all right,” Arthur said. “You can stay, if ya want. Don’t mind.”

John was not going to let his chance pass. His alcohol fueled mind wouldn’t let it. He flopped back down onto Arthur, which earned him a grunt. John rubbed his face into Arthur’s chest, inhaling deeply. This was pure bliss, and John knew it. How long had it been since he and Arthur had slept next to each other? Probably eight or so years, maybe more. The coziness of it flooded back to him, and John bit his lip, emotion welling in his throat. He swallowed it down and let his hand rest on Arthur’s stomach. Delicious heat seeped into him.

The only thing annoying was that John wasn’t comfortable. There was almost no room left on the cot, and he was half off, half on Arthur. His left arm was already going numb. John still had all his clothes on, including his gun belt and boots. It just wasn’t ideal. Though he felt too lazy to try to take anything off, body feeling weighty, more than usual.

John shifted, trying to find a better angle to lay. He tangled his legs with Arthur’s and heard the man huff. John moved his torso over Arthur’s until his left arm was free, feeling coming back into it. He hummed, able to take in more of Arthur’s heat now, pressed along the entirety of his front. John squirmed, trying to get one of his knees between Arthur’s legs instead of on top of it.

A stuttered breath. John paused. He hadn’t imagined that and it hadn’t come from him. John twisted his hips down, and something hard dug into one.

“Marston, can you please _stop_ with your damn movin’?” Arthur hissed.

Carefully, John settled himself still. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He brought his hand down towards whatever he was feeling. He was sure it was his gun, and he wanted to get that out of the way. He shifted slightly so that his hand could touch the object.

John’s addled brain wasn’t quick to put the obvious pieces together. He knew after a moment of grabbing that this was _not_ a gun, because a gun was solid metal. This was hard, but it had give to it, and it was warm. Also, it was _in_ Arthur’s trousers.

“Wassat?” John slurred, trying to figure out if somehow this was a gun, but Arthur’s instead. “Ya leave your gun on you?”

“What?” Arthur’s voice was barely a whisper. “No…”

John finally got it, then. “Oh.” He was touching Arthur’s cock, not a gun. John subdued his hand’s movements and held his breath. It was silent, only crickets playing their songs.

And then, Arthur said, “John…”

Before any more of the sentence could continue, John forcefully pressed his palm down and slid it up along Arthur’s covered cock. It got him a sharp inhale, and _damn_ , John liked the sound of that, made his own cock twitch. He dragged his hand back down, curled his fingers along the outline. Arthur said something too quiet to understand.

Maybe, John thought, he was dreaming. He was just asleep by the fire right now, fantasizing about getting into bed with Arthur. He’d done that before, so this was most likely no different. Except it _felt_ different, felt _real_. John knew he was drunk but also knew that there was no way this could all be in his head. Drunk him felt things more, made his skin hyper-sensitive. He paused, waiting, wondering if Arthur was going to push him off or yell at him.

Nothing of the sort came. Just breathing, the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest under John’s head. John worked his clumsy fingers past the waistband, needing to get his hand around Arthur’s cock. When he did, he moaned, the size of it filling up John’s hand more than his own did. It was warm, just like Arthur always was. John rubbed his fingers against it, tracing veins and moving the foreskin around.

Still, Arthur didn’t speak. John had no idea why he was being allowed to do this. He wasn’t about to stop, though. This could be his only chance. John hastily pulled Arthur’s cock out, making it easier to grip. John tugged on it like he would his, a sloppier pace than he wanted but he was tired. He felt Arthur’s groan in his chest. John was spurred on. He focused on the head, let it rub against his palm.

John’s buzzed brain had another grand idea. He forced himself up, letting go of Arthur’s cock. “I need sumthin’.” He was talking mostly to himself as he reached over to where he knew Arthur’s little table was. He knocked over a picture in the process but soon felt the familiar cylinder. John set it on Arthur’s chest.

He worked at his belts, then pushed his jeans down. He struggled out of them, hitting his head on the side of the wagon that made up one wall of Arthur’s tent. John had forgotten about his boots though, and he ripped those off and tossed them somewhere into the grass. Naked from the waist down, he straddled Arthur, barely able to fit his knees to the side of him. He grabbed the gun oil and shook some out into his hand. John didn’t know why Arthur hadn’t said anything else, but he wasn’t being stopped, and that was a good sign. Right? Maybe… John licked his lips, hand reaching behind to dip a finger inside himself. He found that the stretch wasn’t bothering him, so he had another join the first.

Arthur’s face was a little clearer now, though the darkness of night was still a heavy blanket over everything. John knew he was being watched, _observed_ , in that way Arthur always did. John wished for some light, the sun or a lamp, just _something_ so he could see Arthur’s eyes on him, drown in the sparkling blue of them.

John used his slippery hand to take hold of Arthur’s cock. It was a few failed tries until he had it sliding in, the burn so _good_ John was left gasping, choking on a swallow of air as he sat down flush against Arthur.

There were hands on his thighs, then, and John felt them travel up until finally thumbs dug into his pointed hip bones, the strong grip making John spasm. He grabbed at Arthur’s shirt, wound his fingers into the fabric covering the man’s chest.

John waited, breathing harshly. He felt even more mixed up now, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the abyss below. Some part of him said to jump, head first, take a dive, and his insides twisted as Arthur’s grip tightened. John rocked forward, Arthur’s cock digging just right as he sat back. John didn’t even try to stop the moan that fell from his mouth, couldn’t be bothered. He knew it was loud, too, but _damn_ did Arthur feel good.

He felt Arthur give a shallow thrust up, and it bucked John, made him lean down until Arthur’s breaths were hitting his face. John chewed on his lip, wanting so bad to kiss Arthur but wondering if that was off limits. He moved as much as he could, sometimes meeting Arthur’s thrusts and sometimes not. John whined when Arthur held him down hard, felt the quick drives of Arthur’s cock sliding wetly against his insides. The slap of their skin was noisy.

“Shit, John, someone is gonna hear,” Arthur huffed.

John closed his mouth, but the sounds still rose in his throat, thrummed through his jaw. He didn’t give a fuck if someone heard them. Sure, sober him would definitely care, be absolutely scandalized by it. Except the current him would keep going even if Abigail saw. It would be bad, he knew that, very, very bad indeed. The thought had John groaning louder, fighting against Arthur’s hands to move.

He’s started to get into it, mewling on every push of Arthur’s cock, wanting to touch his own but refusing to just yet, because if he did this would end too soon.

When Arthur’s thrusts came to an abrupt halt, John sat up fully, staring at Arthur. “Why’d ya stop?” he husked, voice more hoarse than before.

There was no answer from Arthur. John briefly thought that maybe Arthur had finally realized what was actually happening here and wanted no more of it. Except it sure _felt_ like Arthur still wanted this. John shifted a little, and the hands on his hips dug in nails, a harsh bite that cut through John’s hazy mind. “What…”

“Hello, boys. Seems like you’re having a lot of fun.”

John tensed. It was Dutch, no mistaking it. He knew the man was behind him, had been too lost in pleasure to even notice his approach. John swallowed, the gulping loud. Dutch laughed. Then there was a heavy hand on John’s ass, tracing along the top where it swelled before it gave a possessive squeeze.

“Shit,” John cursed. He had _thought_ being caught would be much more exciting than this… mainly because he didn’t think it would be _their leader_ of all people noticing. John twisted around as best he could. “Dutch, uh…”

John was kissed, with smooth lips and a scratchy mustache. He was as stunned as his drunk mind let him be for a moment, mouth worked open as Dutch kissed him deep. Another hand joined the one on John’s ass, and there was a finger being pressed in next to Arthur’s cock. John gasped into Dutch’s mouth and it turned into a moan as his bottom lip was nipped.

“Mind if I join?” Dutch asked.

John didn’t even make the attempt to give it any real thought. “No,” he breathed.

Dutch’s hands left John, and he heard the rustle of clothes, the clink of metal, and the sound of Dutch spitting. And then John felt what had to be the head of Dutch’s cock pushing at his hole, right up against Arthur’s cock still inside him.

A hand on John’s back pushed him down until he was flush against Arthur’s front. The bigger man below him was tense, probably still processing this whole new situation.

The stretch was more than John had ever had to deal with. He grit his teeth, a harsh, “Jesus _Christ,_ ” forced out. John decisively sought out Arthur’s mouth with his own, kissing him rougher than he wanted to but he didn’t know _how_ Dutch’s cock was even fitting in him right now. It seemed like an impossible feat.

Somehow, a minute later, John was breathing heavy pants against Arthur’s lips, his whole body trembling. Inside he was on fire, a place deep within being pressed on deliciously, and he was quickly losing it, his cock pressed between his and Arthur’s bodies, hard and leaking. Dutch began to move, and the pressure lessened only to expand when he was filled again.

Arthur’s hands were petting his hair, tangling through it, pulling his head up so he could be kissed. John whined into Arthur’s mouth. The kiss was so _soft_ , Arthur’s beard not as scratchy as John had thought it would be.

Behind him, Dutch’s breathing was labored. “You can take it, son,” he growled.

John pushed back, and Arthur thrust up as Dutch was sliding out. They kept their movements opposite, and John’s mind clouded over. He buried his face into Arthur’s neck. John heard Arthur whispering to him, right in his ear, difficult to decipher but John could understand words like _good_ and his name. One of Arthur’s hands traced over the scars on his face, mapping each of them before returning to his hair.

It all felt too good. John hugged Arthur tightly, body being pushed and pulled, his trapped cock rubbed just right. With a broken sob John came, shivering like he was freezing.

Arthur mouthed against his ear. “ _Fuck_ , John. Fuck.”

Heat filled him, and John moaned into Arthur’s neck. The two cocks in him went still. He tried to catch his breath. He felt like he was on that cliff again, only this time he was rising above it, the ground getting smaller and smaller. Arthur’s big arms were around his back now, holding him.

Vaguely, he heard Dutch say, “Thanks, boys.”

The stretch was gone soon after, and he was pleasantly sore. John curled against Arthur, already feeling his mind shut off. “I’m gonna sleep,” he murmured.

“We should clean up,” Arthur said, voice a little louder this time, but still gentle.

John attempted to shrug. “Later.” Then everything went sweetly blank.

When John startled awake, it was day time. He rubbed at his eyes until they weren’t cloudy and saw that he was in Arthur’s tent. Ah… John’s head filled with images, and he apparently hadn’t gotten drunk enough to forget. He sat up gradually to see that he was alone. He had on pants and a thick blanket covered him.

John glanced at the side table. There was a piece of paper there, looked like it had been ripped out of Arthur’s journal. He leaned a little closer and saw the words _we need to talk_ scrawled out in Arthur’s handwriting.

“Well… shit.” John felt the familiar pounding start in his head. This probably wouldn’t end on a high note. Yet, he was still content that he’d gotten to screw Arthur… and Dutch, he guessed. That sure had happened, hadn’t it? John knew it had, because his ass hurt like a bitch.

He laid back down. Later, he thought. He’d deal with all that later. Right now, he just wanted to happily replay last night in his head as he dozed.

**Author's Note:**

> havent written DP since 2011 and i wanted to try again ahaha


End file.
